


The Story of Illya and Napoleon

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: A tiny bit of smut, Caring Illya, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Violence, Insecurities, Inspired By Tumblr, Love, M/M, Movie Reference, Some angst, some ptsd, tumblr ficlets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:44:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 14,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: Drabbles of Illya and Napoleon, two beautiful people that are impossibly drawn to each other. Each story is unrelated to the other and mostly is T rated unless stated otherwise.





	1. I've Always Wanted To

**Author's Note:**

> Just various little drabbles from Tumblr and from my notes I haven't posted. I need to chuck them somewhere. Maybe I could share them with you.

Napoleon is startled by the weight of a heavy arm draped over his waist. An intent hand that presses against his chest, smoothed flat. He waits with interest, as Illya moves a bit more, to spoon him properly, his taller legs tucked behind Napoleon’s.

“This feels good,” Napoleon teases.

Illya just hums without saying a word.

Napoleon moves himself back, just a bit, to be even closer to the man behind him. Moves until his back is pressed against Illya’s chest, redirects Illya’s arms to a position that’s just a bit more comfortable for them both.

“Here’s a secret I’ve always wanted to say,” he tells the Russian. “I’ve always wanted to be this close to you.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath and Illya’s chin suddenly rests just on the crook of Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon feels him breathing, slow and calm. Feels him nuzzling his skin.

“If you must know, this is how proper lovers behave,” Napoleon murmurs.

“You wish,” Illya says but smiles at Napoleon’s remark fondly.

“Well my wish came true,” Napoleon chuckles.

“Just sleep, Cowboy,“ Illya kisses him on the cheek. “You talk too much.”

“Goodnight, Peril,” Napoleon laughs and soon they both drift off to sleep.


	2. Beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya does not lie to himself, never has.

Illya does not lie to himself, never has. He believes he is a person of extraordinary honesty and directness. But meeting Napoleon, his true foil, has changed everything. The American, a liar, a thief, and every iteration of him as a person, is just the complete opposite of Illya. He is a person that feels no particular loyalty to anyone other than himself, perhaps. A person who has said he _‘prefers to work alone’_ , someone who needs no one else in his life. But now, here he is, pledging words of endearment in Illya’s ears, saying how Illya corrects his every flaw, and that he could only be whole with Illya by his side, _in his life_.

This is the Napoleon he knows now. A person who’s willing to sacrifice his own life and freedom for Illya. And Illya takes it all in.

“You are so beautiful,” Napoleon says breathily against Illya’s neck and to that, Illya curses. Just, God damn _him_ , Illya thinks. How could he say this when he’s the one making Illya’s heart flutter so quickly, makes his lungs empty and his breath impossible to catch? How could Napoleon say he makes him lose his mind when he’s the one that’s responsible for the impossible feelings Illya feels when they’re together, makes his skin hot and sensitive to his practised touch? Napoleon Solo, always making Illya feel like an awkward teenager in love, experiencing his first crush, all giggly and oh-so-needy, especially when he touches Illya where everyone had failed to before this. 

_His heart._


	3. A Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon's CIA days catches up with him. Illya tries to help.

Despite Gaby’s advice, Illya had followed Napoleon. His partner is meeting his former CIA handler and Illya needs to find the reasons why. Without Napoleon’s knowledge, he sits in his car around the corner of a cafe where Napoleon is currently with Sanders, listens to their conversation through the audio bugs he’d planted on his partner. He grips the steering wheel hard in his hands, knuckles turning white as he hears what’s being discussed. Sanders is making threatening demands and Illya finds himself summoning all of his courage not to burst into the cafe so he could end their conversation. Perhaps he could with a bullet right between Sanders’ eyes. 

“You could consider your sentence served, Solo, if you give us what we want. You won’t owe us a thing anymore. You’ll be a free man if you do as I say.”

Illya’s heart pounds. He waits nervously. There is excruciating silence before Napoleon finally speaks. 

“I’m sorry. But I’m going to have to decline. You could either kill me now or, if you’re kind enough, at the end of my so-called leash, we could discuss my fate again.”

Sanders hums. “You will regret this, Solo.”

A sudden commotion, sounds of glass breaking and a pained groan from Napoleon makes Illya jump out of his car, running towards the cafe in no time at all. But when he enters the premise, his heart plummets when he could only see a few scared waitresses behind the counter and a couple of trembling patrons hiding beneath one of the coffee tables. 

Napoleon and Sanders are gone. 

 

***

 

“What is it, Illya?”

“Can I come in?”

After a momentary pause, Napoleon nods, steps aside, and then closes the door after his Russian partner. Once inside his apartment, Illya gets to have a better look at Napoleon. 

His hair is damp after a recent shower, Illya supposes, with a single curl falling across his bruised forehead, making him appear much younger and vulnerable than usual. After the incident in the cafe, Illya had tracked Napoleon down only to find him beaten and bruised in an alleyway a couple of blocks from his meeting with Sanders. Apparently, Sanders had his cohorts with him and they had given Napoleon a pretty good beating, a warning for more severe things to come for Napoleon because he had refused to cooperate with them. Illya had tried to help but Napoleon had been adamant that he could take care of himself. And now, here they are again, and Illya wishes he had been more forceful with his partner earlier. Because he doesn’t look too good at the moment.

He is dressed in his pyjama trousers with a loosely tied robe and Illya notices a bandage wrapped around his partner’s torso.

“They hurt you. Your ribs…”

Napoleon waves Illya’s concern before he could go on any further. 

“I’m fine.”

“I will judge that,” Illya says, stepping closer. “Please, let me see.”

Napoleon matches Illya’s forward movement with a step back from the Russian. He tries to maintain a distance between them and this somehow hurts Illya.

“You do not trust me?” 

“I do but you don’t trust me enough when you’d followed me earlier. I’d told you not to interfere.”

“It could’ve been worse for you if I hadn’t been there!” Illya argues, raising his voice. 

“They were long gone by the time you got to me, Peril.”

Illya’s not even remotely thrown off by Napoleon’s attempt at redirection. He knows exactly what the American is trying to do.

“Please, let me see, Cowboy. It’s the least I could do.”

_Because I’m the cause of this. You’d wanted to protect me and got hurt instead._

Before Napoleon could protest, Illya already has his hands on Napoleon’s shoulders, forces him to sit on the sofa in the middle of the room. Napoleon gives a rather undignified curse as Illya shoves his robe apart, leaving it to pool around him on the seat.

“You seem a little too eager to get me off this robe,” Napoleon says somewhat breathlessly, trying to defuse the tension that has steadily risen in the last few minutes. He grits his teeth when Illya simply ignores him, chooses to focus on his injured ribs instead. He jumps and swears when the Russian presses down rather hard on his bruised torso. 

“One or two ribs, maybe worse than just a bruise. It might be cracked,” Illya says in a controlled manner. He’s really bristling despite trying to sound calm.

“I’ll be fine, Peril. It’s nothing. I can take care of it, no worries.”

Illya’s eyes snap up at once at that. They’re filled with questions that desperately need some answering to.

“Why didn’t you give Sanders what he wanted?”

Napoleon shakes his head. Laughs. “I don’t know the answer anymore than you do, Peril. So don’t ask me.”

“This could have been avoided,” Illya mutters, gestures at Napoleon’s injuries, but looks away when Napoleon’s gaze got a little too intense for him to handle.

_Stop pretending like you care, Peril, because like I’d said, I can take care of myself._

Illya could tell what’s swirling in Napoleon’s mind. They are just partners and not even partners by choice. But Napoleon gets under his skin so easily, it unnerves him. Illya’s always frantic when he doesn’t have Napoleon within his sight. His need to always protect him baffles even himself. Does Napoleon feel the same way too?

“Cowboy, what is this between us?” Illya suddenly asks and Napoleon’s breath hitches.

“Illya…” Napoleon’s voice has an edge to it, trembling. “Maybe this is not the best of times to discuss this.”

“I do not like this ambiguity, Solo,” Illya says. While he waits for Napoleon’s reply, one hand is already probing the swelling around his head injury. “I want to know why you try to protect me, and why I…why I hate it when I can’t protect you.”

Napoleon sighs. “Maybe we already know why.”

Illya doesn’t say a thing, continues to let his hand wander. Napoleon winces when he touches the bruises on his cheek, tries to pull away from Illya but Illya holds him firmly in his grasp. 

“I will kill Sanders for this,” he says, angry. “I promise you.”

The expression on Napoleon’s face tells Illya that yes, even if he is, in fact, happy to let Illya go trigger happy on Sanders, he won’t allow Illya to land into trouble just for his sake.

“Although I am touched, I’m not an idiot to simply let you do that, Peril. It’s not as simple as that, okay?”

“Solo,” Illya says but Napoleon cuts him off with a finger to his lips. He leans their foreheads together, murmurs, “Let me worry about Sanders, all right?”

Napoleon seems somehow smaller and defeated in the wake of the day’s events, and Illya tells himself that he’ll never let Napoleon go through his predicament alone. Never.

And that is a promise.


	4. Beaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya has tried explaining most of it, but it’s too difficult with words, always complicated. Showing it to Napoleon would make more sense.

It had been sometime since Napoleon had last woken up so early. Not for a mission or for some catastrophic event that had needed his involvement. Usually, that would be the case for him but not that day. That day he’s up just after the peak of dawn so he could see this beach Illya had told him about at its best hour; when it is deserted, wet, and cold. Naked of all pretence.

That is why he is now crossing that small town in Moscow, in search of the ocean, through the narrow stone streets in silence. He sees the street lights go out, one by one, rendered useless by the presence of the sun. He could smell mist in the air, and because there is nobody around, no one up so early, Napoleon could hear the echo of his own footsteps as he makes his way to the waterfront.

Then, he sees him, he sees Illya, standing at the edge of the water. The wind is ruffling his hair and he looks almost too adorable for his own good. Napoleon hurries his steps towards him. He could taste the salt on his lips even before he reaches the tall Russian. Walking down the marble stairs to the dark sand, Napoleon could hear the roar of the waves, so loud, wild and free. And Illya had been right. There is nobody around, except for an old man across the beach that’s more than a green spot against the grey of the sand. Napoleon sees the man walking his dog.

Illya doesn’t seem to have noticed the man, or he just doesn’t care. Because when he sees Napoleon approaching him, he immediately slides his arm around his neck, drawing the American closer. Napoleon is grateful for the cold, perhaps giving Illya reasons to be holding him like that in the open. His fingers are warmer than the air when he runs them through Napoleon’s hair.

“This is my favourite beach. Ever since I was a boy.”

He feels the ghost of Illya’s smile against his neck and Napoleon could tell he is happy. For a second he actually feels jealous of that beach. Usually, he’s the one that could make his Red Peril smile like that.

“And you asked me to come here this early because?” Napoleon asks, ignoring his own silly notion. He squints his eyes at his partner.

“You once asked me, Cowboy, about my first love.”

Napoleon hums. He might have asked it a lifetime ago. Maybe it had been in Istanbul, during their first assignment as proper UNCLE agents. They had been on a beach with Gaby (of course the beach, because Illya loves beaches), celebrating their post mission success. Illya had taken pictures and even kept one of Napoleon and Gaby together, their faces obscured by the angle of the photography, shadows hiding their faces. It’s always dangerous keeping any pieces of evidence of them together, because the whole spying business is cruel, and anything could be used against them, but Illya had insisted on that particular one and Napoleon now thinks he knows why the Russian had been adamant. Suddenly Napoleon feels that perhaps he has his love story written backwards somehow. Because of course, Illya remembers it, he remembers everything that is important, every little detail, and Napoleon laughs at his own idiocy.

“So what _was_ your first love, Peril?”

Illya smiles to that, how Napoleon had construed his question, and Napoleon recognises it as well. _What was your first love, Peril?_ And not _‘who?’_.

“Illya?”

“This beach,” he says, gestures towards the vast sea with his free hand, the one that is not holding Napoleon close, anchoring him.

 _This_ , he repeats, and he kisses Napoleon before he could say anything, and all Napoleon could hear then is the wind hissing by, he hears the sea, and all he could feel later is Illya holding him close.

And he’ll have sand in his hair, in his shoes and clothes, for hours, even days after that, as he finally understands what Illya has been trying to tell him all along. And he’ll never have to be jealous of Illya’s past again.


	5. Shaken Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon did not expect to find Illya sitting on the sofa in his room that late after his hushed meeting with his handler.

“You were with Waverly.”

Napoleon did not expect to find Illya sitting on the sofa in his room that late after his hushed meeting with the elderly Brit. But he should have known better that Illya would found out about it. He was always the better spy between them after all.

“Well, there’s no point me denying it.”

“What did he want?”

Napoleon did not bother to answer. Instead, he took off his coat and after carelessly tossing the garment aside, he went straight for his decanter to pour himself a drink. But Illya’s hand stopped him before he could reach for his glass. Napoleon cocked an eyebrow at the Russian in frustration. Damn, Peril was fast. It took him not a few seconds to cross the large room with his long strides.

“What?” Napoleon asked, sounding almost bored.

“What did he want?” Illya repeated his earlier question with more authority, enunciating each word slowly. “I know it is not for a mission.”

Stubbornly, Napoleon only shrugged off Illya’s hold on his hand and filled that glass of scotch he had been craving throughout that long walk back to his hotel room. After taking a swig of his drink, he turned to move but Illya stopped him with a firm grip on his arm.

“Solo,” he said, his voice almost a plea, “tell me.”

If Napoleon were to shrug him off again, he was quite certain he would hear a _‘please’_ at the end of Illya’s sentence. Napoleon knew him that well.

“Why does it matter?” Napoleon returned Illya’s question with one of his own this time, eyes trained on the taller man who was starting to grow impatient.

“It matters.”

“But why?”

“Why is it so difficult for you to answer?” Illya snapped. The hint of irritation in his tone of voice was clear and his grip on Napoleon’s arm tightened. They could go back and forth all night because they were both stubborn men with egotistical pride who would not easily relent. But taking pity on Illya, Napoleon eventually gave in.

“It’s Sanders. He’d asked Waverly of the possibility of me returning to the CIA once our current mission is over.”

Illya sucked in a breath at Napoleon’s admission and took a step back. He had regretted asking but he had needed answers. And now, he was not sure whether he would like to know the outcome of it. He swallowed thickly.

“And—what did Waverly say?”

Illya’s voice was almost a whisper, shaky, and it was only minute, but Napoleon definitely did not miss the tremor on those fingers, which not a few seconds ago, had had a death grip on him. Hating the sight, Napoleon closed the gap between them and took hold of both Illya’s hands so he could still them and looked him firmly in the eye.

“Waverly denied him. Told him I’m UNCLE’s and what Sanders suggested wasn’t even going to be entertained.”

“Are you sure?” Illya cautiously asked. “He could do this?”

“Yes. It’s taken care of.”

The immediate relief in Illya’s eyes was evident, and Napoleon wasn’t sure who had moved first after that because then they were kissing, lips furious and hard on each other. Illya’s hands were all over him; on his nape, his arms, and then they were grabbing his waist, pulling him in like he was afraid Napoleon might disappear if he were to loosen his hold on him. And when they finally part to take in some needed air, Illya leaned their foreheads together.

“Do not scare me again, Cowboy,” he choked.

“It’s my all time favourite hobby, didn’t you know?”

Illya kissed Napoleon’s jaw, murmured in his ear, “I hate you for it.”

“No, you don’t.”

Growling, Illya grabbed him roughly and started kissing him again, hands rough in Napoleon’s hair, tugging at them until the American was hissing at every pull.

“Sorry for making you worry, I didn’t mean to do it. The news had me shaken up too,” Napoleon apologised later after they broke away for the second time. “Never thought Waverly’s echelon was so high within the intelligence community he could deny Sanders with a snap of his fingers.”

Illya hummed, wanting to say _‘Sanders is a nobody’_ , but minced his words at the last second, fearing it might come back to haunt him one day. Pushing the terrible notion aside, he pressed their lips together again, this time slower and more languid, and Napoleon took, and took and took whatever Illya was giving him because losing Illya was the last thing Napoleon wanted and he would probably go mad if the tables had been turned. The idea had him shuddering, and he wrapped his arms harder around Illya, pulling him in so close until there was no telling where Illya ended and he began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite trope is Illya worrying the CIA will take Napoleon away from him. Sorry, for writing this again but I cannot help myself. :P


	6. The Brussels Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Brussels, Napoleon's got Illya worried, again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt from this little fic [A Compromise](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10525323) for kaijusizefeels

Illya presses the gash on Napoleon’s left thigh to staunch the bleeding. Red soaks through his torn pants, seeps in between Illya's fingers, the flow of blood somehow still not stopping despite Illya's best effort. He inspects the torn flesh again, the wound ugly and deep, and Illya's worry doubles over. Napoleon is going to bleed to death. If Gaby and team don't arrive soon, he'll carry Napoleon out of that hellhole himself because he'll be damned if he loses his partner that night.

"Cowboy, look at me."

Napoleon blinks at Illya's gentle command. Distress is written all over Illya's face and Napoleon feels guilty just by looking at him. 

"It'll be okay, Peril. Don't worry."

"You lied to me. You let me escape but you didn't follow. You got yourself caught on purpose," Illya says shakily as he tries to ignore the increasing tremor in his heart.

"Sorry. But I had no other choice."

"Stupid. This can't keep happening, Cowboy. I won't lose you to some mission."

But Napoleon’s lopsided grin tells Illya that he’s probably worrying for nothing.

"Relax. It’s just a flesh wound, non life threatening, I'm quite sure."

Illya glares angrily at Napoleon. Half an hour ago, the sight of him slumped against that rusty wall, with his head flopped forward against his chest, one hand chained to a pole above his head had almost made Illya feel like he’s the one who had died. Cursing, Illya checks on Napoleon again. His left shoulder is clearly dislocated, perhaps a couple of broken ribs, and the blood from his injured thigh, _all that blood_ , it makes Illya's stomach churn. And yet, he's still taking everything lightly? Like a punishment, Illya presses his hand harder on Napoleon's wound making him hiss.

"Serves you right. Maybe next time I should just leave you. Maybe next time I don't bother to come back."

Despite the pain he's in, Napoleon fists Illya's shirt, pulls him close with his good arm and whispers, "You don't have the heart to do that," in his ear. Illya only sighs and nods, because no matter how infuriating, Illya would never leave him behind. Loving Illya's comforting embrace, Napoleon leans his forehead on Illya's shoulder, and the Russian kisses his temple lightly, says, "I'd never do it, but if you try to be a hero again, I might just be tempted, Cowboy."

Napoleon stays quiet, and that's when Illya realises he's lost consciousness. He panics, almost loses his wits when Napoleon doesn't respond to his continuous pleadings until Gaby finally barges through the door a minute later. They quickly bring him to the nearest hospital and when Napoleon regains consciousness hours after that, Illya, despite being utterly relieved, pretends he's still mad at him. He tells a bewildered Napoleon that he won't hesitate asking Waverly for a change of partner if he continues to jeopardise his life for him, and even if Napoleon knows Illya isn't serious, (because he _can't_ be serious), Napoleon nods in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on my phone, so apologies for the mistakes :)


	7. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon sometimes dreams of Rudi and the chair, but Illya is there to calm the storm.

Napoleon is struggling to breathe. He isn’t in his room but is currently bound tight on a reclined chair, a dizzying lightbulb hovering above him. He could hear Rudi’s malicious voice taunting him, and Napoleon groans. 

_“It’s not a dream, Mr Solo. You can’t escape this time. My canvas is still vacant for you to fill it.”_

The voice seems far away, false like, yet tangible. Napoleon smells the familiar stench of sweat and fear, and his stomach muscles contract. A sob escapes him. In his confusion, he thinks of Illya, wonders if he is coming to save him again or will he leave him, just like so many others have done before. The idea, Napoleon realises, is more painful than Rudi’s torture. But he doesn’t have to ponder too much when a pair of strong arms start to wrap around his shoulders, dragging him away from Rudi and his angry shouts, and he hears _“it’s okay, Cowboy. I’m here. I’m here”_ being spoken repeatedly.

Napoleon jerks back, tries to push away, but the solid frame behind him just curls his grip tighter, protecting him from lashing out, as his panic slowly subsides.

“It is okay, you’re fine,” the voice whispers, so quiet, so gentle, Napoleon strains to hear it as the warm breathing against his neck skitters a calming sensation that flows through his skin. 

“You’re fine.”

“Illya?” he says eventually, and Illya murmurs a soft affirmative. 

“Yes, I’m here.”

For a moment Napoleon is afraid to open his eyes, fears Illya holding him is merely a dream and he’ll return to his hellish nightmare and Rudi. He grips his fingers against the Russian’s vice-hold, tries to anchor himself on Illya and Illya returns it by slowly rubbing his hands up and down his forearms. Napoleon tries to turn, so he could see his face but Illya does not let him, not before he’s assured Napoleon’s lingering fear is truly gone.

“I thought you weren’t coming this time,” Napoleon says after a while as Illya loosens him from his grip, lets his partner acknowledge his nightmare and fears. “Thought my time was up, that I’d be fried in that chair and I won’t even get to say goodbye.”

Illya winces at Napoleon’s admission. Suddenly he’s angry at Rudi again, and hates himself that he’d felt a flicker of resentment at Gaby as well, although he knows it hadn’t been her fault. Ignoring his rising anger, he then turns him around and gently cups Napoleon’s face between his hands. Even in his addled state, Illya could see the fear in Napoleon’s eyes, the slight trembling at the edges of his mouth. His fear is real. And what had happened then still haunts him to this day. Without hesitation, he cards his fingers through Napoleon’s hair, and draws him nearer to lean his forehead against his.

“I’m sorry it happened, but I promise you it won’t happen again. Not to you,” he whispers. Napoleon nods and feels guilty he’s troubled his partner with his own foolish fears but Illya is having none of it. 

“I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, Peril.”

“You don’t need to,” Illya says firmly.

“It’s just that-,“

"Don’t,” Illya repeats, squeezing Napoleon tight against his body hard as if he could physically wring out the fear in him. And in a way it works because Napoleon begins to calm, his breathing even. “Thank you,” he murmurs eventually, his words muffled against Illya’s shoulders, says, “everything’s fine” and even if Illya isn’t particularly convinced, he hums and stays there with Napoleon, holds him close for the rest of the night.


	8. Game, Set and Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya watches Napoleon constantly, and puts a stop to the game he’s playing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ficlet from my tumbr entry

Spies are mysterious beings. Each having a secret of their own, a secret in their hands they want to protect. And Illya itches at unraveling the mystery that is Napoleon Solo. He watches, intrigued, each time Napoleon taunts him, each time Napoleon seduces him. Napoleon might think Illya is unaware of his antics, but Illya definitely knows. Because he’s grown so accustomed to this American spy who is always catching his eye.

_It’s in and out. No mess. And we both forget about it in the morning._

That’s how they had started out. But ever since Rome, their dynamics have changed. From wary and calculating, to an easy and almost careless camaraderie. And Illya has learned him well. He can easily read the casual slant of his shoulders, the glimmer in his blue eyes. Every move Napoleon makes is done with intent. When he is up to something, his posture is rigid, sometimes too composed. He’ll have his hands tucked away in pockets and people who is unfamiliar with him will interpret this as relaxed confidence. When he is happy, Napoleon’s more dramatic in his ways. Eyes darting, smile too blinding and disarming. When he is upset, he’ll recoil and be extra perceptive to his surroundings, and other people. Always prepared to shield himself from further hurt. 

And even if Illya’s seen the act so many times, he hates how Napoleon captivates him every single time, no matter how infuriating the game he plays.

“Are you toying with me?”

He snaps at Napoleon finally, when the American puts one hand on Illya’s hip, a seemingly casual touch, as they are about to retire to their respective rooms one evening. Napoleon pulls his hand back in an instant at Illya’s words, but Illya grabs his wrist in one swift motion, eliciting a smile from Napoleon. Illya knows he’s been had when he sees this, his reaction exactly what Napoleon had wanted.

”I’m playing no games, Peril.”

Illya inhales sharply, grips his fingers tighter on Napoleon, his eyes unwavering on his. 

”I’m not afraid of you.”

Napoleon looks like he wants to laugh, but he bites it back, only says, ”I know you’re not.”

And right at that moment, Illya realises he has never wanted to possess something or someone as badly as he wants Napoleon. And looking at him, those challenging eyes as if saying _’fight me’,_ Illya knows he’s about to lose it.

”I can’t give you anything, Peril, but if you want me…” Napoleon suddenly murmurs, voice quite and calm, despite the quiver Illya’s sure he’d sensed when he had said the words. The entire situation; Napoleon’s underlying sentence (like he had read his mind), and Illya holding onto him like he’s afraid he’ll lose him if he lets go, makes Illya quake with some familiar feeling, akin to the anger he’s always trying to hide.

Napoleon always puts on a mask wherever he goes but Illya is certain he is the real deal whenever he’s with him. There is no pretence, no mask. He’s not the shallow playboy he portrays when seducing a mark during missions, not the suave man in a suit and tie. And Illya must be someone Napoleon trusts enough for him to display his true self, his vulnerability, not the persona hidden under all the slick hair and pressed clothes. The idea is almost enough to make Illya furious. What does this thief see in him? 

”Solo,” he starts again, his grip on Napoleon’s wrist almost to the point of bruising. ”Tell me what this is. What do you want?” And then almost a whisper, ”Why do you do this?”

Napoleon purses his lips, leans in closer towards Illya. He’s pressed up against the wall now, and Napoleon is one who always uses everything to his advantage, so he cants his hips upwards, the friction against Illya’s earning a startled gasp from the taller man. Then when Illya’s hold on him slackens, Napoleon pulls him nearer with his free hand.

“I’ve stolen a lot of things, Illya. But I mostly never keep them in my possession, only the ones I truly like. But you, if I can have you, I’ll trade everything I own for you,” Napoleon says, admits, like this is one of his usual lines of flirtation. 

”I am not something you can steal,” Illya refutes, although there’s no real conviction in his argument. In truth, he’s already lost the entire game. Slowly, he presses his palms against the wall on either side of Napoleon’s head. ”And you know why?”

”Why?” Napoleon asks. He is pouting, eyes wide. And Illya’s defences crumble.

”Because you can’t steal what you already own,” Illya murmurs, and just because he’s feeling a tad bold, he nuzzles Napoleon’s ear, just to feel Napoleon shiver against him. An exhilarating thrill rushes through Illya’s body, knowing he is able to make Napoleon act without his careful deliberation.

“I trust you, Illya Kuryakin,” Napoleon suddenly tells him. _Too trustingly. Too openly._ And this frightens Illya. But he’ll be damned if he ever disappoints his Cowboy. He won’t ever betray this explicit trust that’s been thrust onto his hands. And even if it is dangerous for men like them to indulge in these kind of feelings, Illya can’t bring himself to protest when Napoleon kisses him. 

It’s game over. _Set. And match._


	9. Napoleon's Jacket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Napoleon got his jacket back after Illya rescued him from Rudi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little missing scene from the movie. :)

"Damn, I left my jacket in there."

Illya watches, not with pity, as Rudi burns and twitches in the torture chair. It's unfortunate though, because a sadist like him should suffer a worst fate after what he'd done to Cowboy. The thought churns Illya's stomach and he clenches his shaky hands into fists. When he glances at Napoleon beside him, he thinks about what he'd gone through all those while he was trying frantically to get to him. Rudi had hurt him. And that little display of vulnerability when Illya had accidentally stepped on the pedal was proof enough. Without saying a word, Illya opens the door to the torture chamber, earning a befuddled look from Napoleon. 

"Peril, what are you doing? We've to go to Gaby now."

Illya disappears in the thick smoke, the smell of burning flesh too distinct for Napoleon to stomach. It could have easily been him on that chair. He could have met his fate if Illya hadn't shown up sooner. And the realisation has him feeling a little faint, until he has to lean one hand on the door for support. The memory of the painful current coursing through him isn't something anyone wants to recall, but it's not easily forgotten. Especially when it's laid bare in front of him at that very moment, and his still palpitating heart is proof enough of the torture he'd endured.

Groaning inwardly, he starts calling Illya again. What the hell was the Russian doing? It isn't time for games, they have a mad woman to stop and a mission to complete. Not to mention finding Gaby. And he's just about to enter the room when Illya appears again, miraculously, with Napoleon's jacket drapped on his arm. 

"Here," Illya says as he hands the garment to a rather stunned Napoleon. "Fortunately it is still intact."

Napoleon's mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He grabs the jacket but his eyes never leave Illya, wants to say something clever but nothing comes out, the words somehow lodged in his throat. Illya's act has left him speechless somewhat. Because he didn't have to, really. Him mentioning his jacket earlier was just a passing remark, he never expected Illya to actually go and grab the garment for him like a gentleman picking up a lady’s handkerchief during Victorian times. 

"Solo," Illya starts, frowns worriedly at him. "Are you all right?"

Illya puts two fingers at the pulse point on Napoleon's neck and Napoleon almost flinches at the touch. The Russian frowns when Napoleon doesn't say a word, just continues staring, and this gets Illya agitated and he rolls his eyes at him. 

"Come, we'll go find Gaby now. And we need to get medics to check on you. Your heartbeat. Too erratic. Not good."

"You actually _are_ concerned. Amazing," Napoleon finally manages to speak, and he might be seeing things, because he's certain Illya's ears has turned red at his words and the dreamlike quality of the way he's staring at his partner. Ignoring him, Illya just tugs at his arm, pulls Napoleon out of his sort of entranced state.

"We'll talk about this later," he huffs and turns on his heels, leaving Napoleon to follow him, muttering, "After you, Peril." 

It's a different kind of tingle running through Napoleon's body now, and he has to thank a certain Russian for it. He shakes his head at the silly notion in his head and smiles goofily to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is based on [this tumblr](http://el3anorrigby.tumblr.com/post/160104802422/napollya-inspiration-spicehnoodles-so-what-do) entry. :)


	10. Hypothetical Proposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, during a mission, Napoleon suggests something to Illya, in which the Russian simply cannot ignore.

“Do not struggle,” Illya says, his grip around Napoleon’s neck tightens but not enough to hurt. Napoleon knows it’s for show, to throw their THRUSH enemy, who’s currently spying on them from across the building, off.

“I’m not. But I think it would be interesting if we move this to a more comfortable setting, say to the bedroom?” Napoleon counters, raises his eyebrows teasingly even if Illya can’t see the smirk on his face.

“Do not push it, Cowboy. We are at work.”

Illya tries to remain serious when Napoleon continues to tease, says ”but it’s completely okay if we’re not?” although his hold on Napoleon wavers as he curses inwardly. The American knows just how to push his buttons and at the moment Illya is losing the game they’re playing. When Napoleon tries to turn, Illya tilts his chin up, baring his delectable neck to his view, and his stomach churns at the idea of doing so much more to this man who is currently vulnerable, completely at his mercy. He could practically kill Napoleon with one clean snap of his neck and he won’t even know what had hit him. Yet this explicit trust Napoleon has on him irks Illya, he has to let Napoleon know his act is unbecoming of a spy.

“This is very foolish idea from the start. And you are supposed to be smart. We are still enemy spies, Cowboy, do not forget. You know this. Do not trust too easily.”

Napoleon snorts. ”And yet you still haven’t killed me despite numerous chances, Peril. You don’t have the heart to do it. And I think you’d rather be doing something else to me…or am I wrong?”

He could feel Illya’s growing interest, it is not hard to ignore something like that, pressed flushed against his back, and to ante up his act, to prove himself right, he tries to break free from the Russian and it earns him the desired effect. Illya grabs him by his chin and his other hand grips his arm tight.

The shift in power has clearly gone Napoleon’s way.

“Peril?” Napoleon questions, pretends to be confused. He tries to turn but Illya doesn’t let him, cages him still in those arms.

“Nyet,” Illya murmurs, breath hot against Napoleon’s neck, ”you are not wrong.”

A soft groan escapes Napoleon at the admission, as Illya’s fingers grasp his tender skin, brushing slightly against the spot just below his jaw, where his pulse is thrumming hard. The American’s nerves are singing at Illya’s touches and he knows he’s got Illya exactly how he wants when Illya murmurs, ”but we’ll do it the Russian way.”

Napoleon is a man that doesn’t say no when an opportunity presents itself, especially when it comes in the form of one Illya Kuryakin. And if Illya does not kill him with guns, he’ll still be the death of him, Napoleon thinks as he smiles at his silent victory while calloused hands pull him roughly into the waiting bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](http://el3anorrigby.tumblr.com/post/162424178977/peskyheathen-bryonyashley-i-look-at-them-and) tumblr entry. :)


	11. Clutching My Cure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While injured, Napoleon inadvertently opens up to Illya and tells him what Rudi had specifically said to him when he'd been in the madman's clutches.

Napoleon blinks his eyes open as he shifts on the cold hard floor. His head is pillowed on Illya’s lap, his face held in between large hands. His partner is muttering soothing Russian words. With no one else in that darkened cell with them, Napoleon guesses those words are meant for him. It’s awful to think Illya’s always nicest to him when he’s hurt like this. Not that he isn’t on most days, but Illya tends to show he cares most for Napoleon when he’s bleeding out or probably dying. Sighing a little, he squints up at his partner, sees a look on the Russian he knows well enough.

Fear. He actually sees fear in Illya’s eyes. Maybe Illya thinks he might not make it this time. But when he recalls back all those times he’d gotten himself injured, Illya always wear the same look. Fear. Why hasn’t he noticed this before?

He suddenly smiles.

“Gaby will find us. She always does,“ he says, sounds as hopeful and put together as ever, in spite of the very perilous situation he’s in. He had blanked out earlier, and now, the excruciating pain in his left leg, muscles definitely shattered after getting shot at his thigh, has worsened, not to mention the throbbing in his head haven’t dissipated one bit. Well, he isn’t entirely surprised at his condition after getting repeated bashings from their enemy who’d wanted information out of him. He’s proud though he’d given them nothing.

“Do not speak.”

Napoleon realises after a while that Illya is hushing him. He had spoken of his torturous ordeal out loud. Cursing silently, his breath then stutters when one of Illya’s hands check on his gunshot wound where the steady flow of blood has soaked through the makeshift bandage around it, and the other remaining its soothing place on his cheek.

“I remember one particular thing Rudi had said to me when I was in his clutches.”

Illya stops whatever he’s doing at the mere mention of Rudi’s name, looks curiously at his partner. Why would Napoleon bring up Rudi at all? He suddenly worries Napoleon is getting delirious.

“What is it, Cowboy?” he asks gently, voice soft.

“Oh, Mr Solo. If only there was someone out there who loved you.”

Illya winces a little. That had not been an experience anyone wants to remember, and obviously, Napoleon had not forgotten a single detail of it. For the first time, Illya realises Napoleon probably had thought no one was coming to save him that day. And Rudi had managed to play out his fears well.

“The maniac’s right, you know. No one was coming,” Napoleon continues. “Who would? No one would. I was resigned to my fate. But when I saw you through the glass window, I thought I was hallucinating, thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I never thought…”

He pauses to turn his face into Illya’s palm, moans into it and murmurs, “you’d come.”

Illya shudders at Napoleon’s admission and tightens his hold on him. Not saying anything, he brushes away the strands of hair plastered on his sweat streaked forehead and leans down to kiss it. It’s an affectionate gesture and Napoleon sighs at the contact of lips against his skin. “But I guess Rudi was wrong.”

“He was,” Illya growls as he pulls back, angry and hating the fact Rudi had done so much damage through his actions and taunting words, he wishes he could kill the man all over again. “I’m here for you, Cowboy.”

“I never thought I’d say this to you, Peril, but I guess I can die happy now.”

Illya snorts out an unamused laugh. “You will not die. Because I will not let you. Understand?”

When Napoleon looks at Illya again, something rather indefinable shows on the Russian’s face. Napoleon would like to read what he’d seen as something he’d been feeling in his chest every time Illya’s close to him, that delicious ache that won’t go away, the flush that blooms on his face whenever Illya stares at him for too long.

_Oh, Mr Solo. If only there was someone out there who loved you._

Oh, how wrong had Rudi been? Illya had cared enough to come back for him then, and Illya’s there _with_ him now, will always be there _for_ him, and that is all Napoleon really needs. The knowledge that he’s not alone. Never will be alone. 

Too caught up in his jumbled thoughts, Napoleon doesn’t realise Illya’s hands have come up to cradle his face in between them once again. He’s trembling now, at the shock and the pain lacing through his body, or maybe it’s because his partner’s calloused thumbs are tracing over his lips. Tantalising. Maybe it’s because Illya has leaned down to replace those thumbs with his lips. Kissing him. They’ve never come this close before. Too close. Illya has always been unobtainable in Napoleon’s eyes. But he’s kissing him now. Maybe he really _is_ hallucinating at that moment. Maybe his body is finally giving in, succumbing to his injuries.

Exhausted and not wanting to think further, Napoleon closes his eyes, lets the darkness overtakes him. And he drifts, taking this as his best way to go; in Illya’s arms.

When he wakes up later though, eyes fluttering open to notice he is on a hospital bed with Illya’s hand firmly clutching his, Napoleon knows this time it’s no hallucination. The warmth of Illya coursing straight through him is as real as it gets.

And Rudi’s definitely been proven wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](http://el3anorrigby.tumblr.com/post/162647161007/i-had-wanted-to-add-a-story-to-this-but-then-i) tumblr entry, with some little tweaks.


	12. To Love A Thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ' _They say count your teeth when you kiss a thief'_
> 
> But what happens when you love one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up, this particular drabble is M rated.

Illya’s trembling has subsided but he still feels the ripples when he eyes Napoleon at his side. 

He looks completely debauched after their intense love making; glistened in sweat, hair in disarray with his curls sticking out whichever way obscuring his flushed face, bite marks on his neck, collarbones and shoulders, taut belly wet with his spent cock splayed against his thigh. _God_ , mere words are not enough to describe the sight that makes Illya’s insides ache with so much love for the man. And what he sees will be forever imprinted in his mind. If he’s a painter, he’d probably paint Napoleon sprawled on his sheets like that, although the idea of his lover being displayed on some exhibition wall for people to feast their eyes on sends jealousy coursing through his veins.

Shaking away the thought, Illya rolls on top of him, leans in, and captures Napoleon’s lips in a slow lingering kiss. When they break apart, Napoleon finds himself chasing Illya’s lips. 

“You kiss like I’m gonna break,” Napoleon grumbles but Illya only shrugs as he rests his arms on either side of Napoleon’s shoulders and smiles. 

“They say when you kiss a thief, count your teeth,” he teases, lips warm against Napoleon’s own, and Napoleon can’t help but grin at that outrageous remark. 

“So are you missing any?”

“Funny, I haven’t.”

Napoleon’s grin just gets wider. “Maybe if you have a gold tooth, Peril.”

His eyes are warm on his Russian lover, wonders what else are going inside his head at the moment. Knowing their nights are mainly made for saying and doing things they can never do during the day, Napoleon waits patiently for what Illya wants to say.

“So, what are you thinking?”

Illya hums.

“Am not missing any teeth, but you did steal something from me, Cowboy,” he says, and Napoleon cocks one eyebrow at him.

“And what would that be?” he asks.

“мое сердце.”

Hiding his face at the crook of Napoleon’s neck, cheeks flushed at his own admission, he smiles when Napoleon asks, “Is that what happens when you love a thief?”

“Definitely,” Illya answers, runs a hand through Napoleon’s hair, and realises he’d lost his heart to him a long time ago. He had cracked open his ribs, sucked the breath from his lungs and used his heart just like it was his own. Illya probably had lost it back in Istanbul, or maybe Rome, he couldn’t tell. 

But Napoleon could take it all. Take everything from him. And Illya would be the willing victim. 

Overwhelmed, he kisses him again and Napoleon’s fingers start scratching down Illya’s back, clawing when the kiss gets rougher. This isn’t like the gentle one from earlier, and Illya swallows in his broken gasps and moans. Not to his surprise, they’re both hard again, and they grind against each other, just rutting and feeling until it gets too much, making Napoleon come, slippery and hot and messy, choking out breathless gasps against Illya’s lips. And Illya strokes himself against Napoleon’s over-sensitised spent flesh, arching and coming messily on his lover’s belly. And when they finally come down from their high, it is Napoleon who is pressing grateful gentle kisses against his mouth, his neck, muttering words that go straight to Illya’s heart.

And Illya feels like he’s learning to love Napoleon all over again, never thought he could want anyone like how he wants Napoleon, with no lies between them, just ruthless honesty and promise. 

“Loving a thief, maybe not so bad,” Illya concedes suddenly and Napoleon laughs.

“Always is, Peril. Always is.”

But that applies to only one particular thief. 

Only Napoleon. 

_Just Napoleon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on [THIS](http://oldfashionedvillain.tumblr.com/post/146664515631/we-both-know-that-the-nights-were-mainly-made-for) lovely Tumblr entry. <3
> 
> And Mr Google is my Russian translator.


	13. On The Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if after burning the disk in Rome, the boys go on the run?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A semi AUish drabble?

They’ve been on the run for months. Rome seems a distant memory, their decision to abandon their respective agencies after burning the wanted disk a calculated risk they’d been willing to take. But during certain nights, when they are exhausted and holed up somewhere in a cheap motel room, Napoleon would admit regret, saying they probably should not have destroyed that disk. That he’d made the decision without thinking of Illya, of what the KGB would do if they ever caught him. And Illya, who has learned to love the man, would convince him otherwise. Whatever they had done, it had been a joint decision and he would never let the guilt settle on Napoleon’s shoulders alone. 

They keep on running, managing well, avoiding their past from catching up with them but in this cat and mouse game, eventually, there has to be an outright winner. And unfortunately, while waiting for their transport in Hong Kong, in which Napoleon had successfully bargained for, he sees a few figures in suits, watching them from a crowded bus stand across the street. Unthinking, he grabs Illya to the side, pushes him into the first darkened back alley he manages to find. They jam themselves behind a stack of wooden crates and Illya does not even need to ask Napoleon the reasons why. 

“They are here.”

This isn’t the first time they’ve been chased and cornered; they’ve had to scamper from hotel rooms, jump away from moving vehicles without warning, and, on one particular occasion, they even had to walk on foot for miles to their next destination after their transport had failed to show up on time. They had been through worse. A lot worse. But this time, somehow, they are cornered with nowhere to go.

“What do we do now?” Illya asks. His shoulders are slumped, hands gripping Napoleon’s arms hard. Despite the defiance in his eyes, he knows as well as Napoleon does that their time is probably up. They are trapped.

“You know, our best chance is if we split up,” Napoleon decides. “Look, Illya, I’ll go out first. It’ll give you a chance to…“

“No!” Illya growls, furious. They’ve been through this argument before, more times than Illya could count. “We run together, we get caught together. You understand?“

Napoleon takes in a deep breath. “I never want this to happen to you,” he says, regret lacing his voice. “I wish there was a better way.”

Illya only nods, and then pulls Napoleon into a furious kiss. "I do not blame you. It was our decision,” he murmurs hoarsely against Napoleon’s parted lips, hands cupping his face. 

They kiss again, knowing it might be the last time they get to do it.

And when they eventually step out from their hiding place, to their utter shock, it isn’t Sanders or Oleg that they see. It isn’t the CIA or the KGB. But a familiar face smiling at them.

“Hello. It’s been hellish trying to find you gentlemen, but I guess Miss Teller’s perseverance paid off.” 

Gaby, standing at Waverly’s side, only beams when she sees her boys. “You could have made my job easier by not running.”

Napoleon and Illya turn to look at each other, stumped. Illya is ready to run, if the need comes, but something tells him they are not getting caught that day.

“What’s going on?” he asks, still wary, as he grips Napoleon’s hand tight. 

“We have a proposition for you two. Consider it as a formal pardon for what you both had done after the Vinciguerra affair. But I’ll explain further on our way to London. So, shall we?”

Illya closes his eyes, a wry smile on his face. He even wants to laugh. And he is too exhausted suddenly to string together proper words. To form a sentence. To let Waverly know exactly what he’s thinking. They’d been running for months only for it to come to this? The gods must be smiling upon them because it could be worse. A lot worse. But he’ll accept this if it means getting to live and still having Napoleon by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written an alternative angsty ending but decide to post the happier version on ao3.


	14. A Little Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya steal Gaby's cars for a little race.

”Let’s do a lap and see who wins.”

“If Gaby finds out, she will not be happy.”

Their cars, or rather Gaby’s, are lined up side by side, engines hot and ready. Napoleon smiles at Illya as he revs the engine, and then winks.

“Are you scared of her, Peril?” Napoleon teases, and without warning, hits his foot on the gas. He peels out, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. Shocked, Illya grunts and curses, immediately chases after him.

At the first curve of the abandoned track they had managed to scour days earlier, Illya’s right on Napoleon’s tail, whose car takes the inside of the track, while he takes the outside, climbing the steep incline. As they come out of the curve, it’s Illya who has the advantage and using gravity, his car speeds ahead of Napoleon’s. He manages a wave at the stunned American as he speeds past him but Napoleon isn’t going to let Illya win. The Russian only just manages to keep his lead after two more curves and as they head down the home stretch moments later, Illya can’t help but imagine how Napoleon would gloat if he wins. But that is to be Illya’s big mistake. Because that split second momentary lapse results in Napoleon zooming past him, taking the win.

“Looks like you lost a bet, Peril,” Napoleon says as he sees Illya climbing out of his car seconds later. And if looks could kill, Napoleon would be dead already, judging by Illya’s unhappy look.

“We should have rematch,” he protests. ”You cheat. You started when I was not ready.”

”But you overtook me,” Napoleon tries to defend himself.

”Does not matter. You still cheat.”

“Sore loser?” Napoleon smirks. But Illya is having none of it. He quickly stalks up to his partner, traps him between his car and his own body. Caught between the heat of the car and Illya, Napoleon’s still trembling body, high on adrenaline, shivers even more. He brings a hand up, places it on Illya’s chest before he could lean any closer.

“We can have the rematch. But only if you kiss me first.”

Napoleon’s proposition is tempting enough. But he still worries what Gaby will do if she ever finds out what they’d done.

“But this stays a secret. Gaby cannot know.”

”No,” Napoleon eventually says and smiles, taps his lips, demanding that kiss, and Illya just rolls his eyes, seemingly annoyed. But then he grabs Napoleon’s collar and gives him a long hard kiss. When they pull back, Illya grins widely. Because in the end, he is the real winner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/post/160757361983/el3anorrigby-mykaijusizefeels-for-some) lovely tumblr entry <3


	15. THRUSH and The Unexpected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya gets separated while running form THRUSH

“How are you feeling?”

Napoleon groans. He blinks as he tries to focus on the man sitting beside him, his blue eyes taking in his surroundings. They are in some kind of small hut that doesn’t look too appealing for his taste. And the man before him, Napoleon knows this man, he thinks. Has he worked with him? Or is he an enemy? But if he is, he wouldn’t have saved him from the grizzly bear. Yes, that Napoleon remembers. 

“How are you feeling?” the man repeats his question, obviously concerned.

“Like I’ve been shred to pieces,” Napoleon croaks an answer. He tries to lean up but the man stops him from doing so. He places a gentle palm on Napoleon’s chest. 

“No, stay still. You’re hurt. Best not to aggravate your injury.”

Napoleon knows that too well, he doesn’t need any reminding. Because lying on that small cot, covered in a blanket that smells like antiseptic and the constant throbbing in his skull, it’s a good reminder enough. When he glances down, he notices his right thigh is heavily bandaged, the traces of crimson on the gauze evident.

“Where are we?” Napoleon asks.

“Safe house. They’ll come for us soon.”

So the man’s a friendly, Napoleon’s hazy mind muses.

“I thought you might not make it at first. Bleeding too much,” the man then murmurs in heavily accented English. He’s Russian. And Napoleon cannot help but think the man is beautiful. And he’s somehow engrossed at the moment, checking Napoleon’s injury, just to make sure it isn’t infected. When he looks up, their gazes meet, and that’s when Napoleon recalls the first time he’d met the man. On a mission somewhere in Rome. 

“What were you thinking trying to fight bear?” 

Despite the pain, Napoleon can’t help but grin at the question. “I must have been an idiot.”

“That’s not too hard to agree with,” the man scoffs. But then his eyes are soft on Napoleon’s once again.

“We got separated while escaping from THRUSH in the jungle. Then I heard a shout, and that was when I saw you holding off that bear. When it clawed at you I thought I was too late, Cowboy.”

_Cowboy._

_Peril._

Of course, it’s Illya. 

Sighing, Napoleon closes his eyes, sticks out a hand from underneath the blanket to reach out for Illya’s hand, takes it in a firm grip. Illya squeezes it in return and that brings Napoleon’s attention on him once again. 

“Who’d think THRUSH would unleash a bear on us?”

Illya huffs and then smiles. “It’s unfortunate the bear gets attracted to American meat and not Russian. Made bad mistake.”

“A bad mistake for the bear indeed,” Napoleon says. And as he drifts off once again, probably the medication Illya’d given him taking its toll, Napoleon thinks of bears, and Russian heroes saving him, and he smiles before feeling soft lips on his cheeks. He’s lucky to be alive indeed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](http://atanau-art.tumblr.com/post/160017763028) amazing tumblr entry <3


	16. Unleashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waverly pays Sanders a visit.

Sanders had just left his house and was walking to his parked car by the curb of his street, whistling and twirling his car keys around his finger when he heard his name being called. He turned and narrowed his eyes, wary of his unexpected morning visitor.

“Well this is a surprise?”

“Good morning.”

There standing before him was Waverly. The man from UNCLE was suited up nicely with a suspicious smile adorning his face, and that, coupled with his unannounced visit, meant something was up.

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“I think that’s not too hard considering what we do.”

Sanders hummed and started towards his car again with Waverly in tow. A few seconds later, they are standing face to face, and Waverly hammered straight on to why he was there, not wanting to delay matters for a second longer.

“I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d drop by and tell you myself that Agent Solo is now officially UNCLE’s and by that, his ties with the CIA are severed on every ground.”

He then handed over a file to Sanders which he promptly snatched off of Waverly’s hand. He took a brief glance inside, but hardly noticed anything that’s written on the papers. Waverly’s words rung in his ears. ‘His ties with the CIA are severed on every ground.’ Letting out a shuddery breath, he eyed his counterpart again.

The American never liked the Brit since he first dealt with him in Rome. Despite the calm and cool gentleman front he portrays, the man was cunning with tricks up his sleeves and now he had just proven that by taking Solo away from him. Jaws clenching, Sanders tried not to seem affected by the news although his blood boiled inside. He gripped the door handle of his car before opening it and snorted.

“On whose authority is this?” he asked bitterly.

Waverly, knowing how the news must really ticked Sanders off, only smiled. “The highest of authority. It’s all stated in the documents for your reading pleasure.”

“That boy still has five years for me. That thief is still on my leash,” Sanders argued as he bodily turned to face Waverly again after dumping his bag and the file he had just received onto the passenger seat.

“Well, yes. But we’ve some very powerful friends that can make things happen for us. So the years he still owes the CIA? Let’s just say it has been served.”

Sanders visibly flinched at Waverly’s bombshell. “I can fight this.”

“Oh, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Not with your track record. You’re an abuser of power and have used it to your advantage over Solo. And the list on your file could go on.”

Sanders eyes go wide. “What list? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’ve tampered with mission evidence, misused on-mission assets. More importantly, some CIA funds have suspiciously gone missing while under your care. Perhaps you’d siphoned it for your own personal use?”

Sander’s face darkened, hands almost shaking. “Is this some kind of joke? I’d never take money from my organisation! They would know this!”

But Waverly only ignored Sander’s rising anger and shrugged. He had seen how Napoleon worked with both Illya and Gaby. He’s a damn fine agent, charmingly brilliant and have a good eye for detail and a man with a good heart as well. And he’s determined to free him from Sanders who’d have a hold on him and used him for almost ten years. He’s freeing Napoleon from his leash.

“And you should also know that we’ve managed to secure Agent Kuryakin from our KGB friends as well. He can come by anytime to convince you that anything you try to plan on Agent Solo after today’s conversation would be a very bad idea indeed. And he’ll do it by whatever means necessary.”

Sanders cocked his head, a scowl now on his freckly face. “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m merely stating facts,” Waverly said.

His face was firm. Obviously, the man was not joking. And Sanders felt the blood drain from his face, scorn rippling in his voice.

“Solo is trouble. He’s not worth your effort and time.”

Waverly suddenly leaned closer, smoothed a hand on Sander’s shoulder, the contact unexpected and like a warning, he muttered, “And I’m relieving you off him.” He then smiled, all sweet and predatory, which made Sanders backed away from the Brit.

“I’ll be going now. As it is, I’m meeting my agents Solo and Kuryakin for breakfast. Would you like to join us?” Waverly added and Sanders just scoffed, got quickly into his car before slamming the door shut. Turning the engine on, he gave Waverly a snide glance. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Well, then that’s a shame. See you around, Sanders. And enjoy the rest of your day,” Waverly said and waved, a satisfied smile on his face as Sanders drove off in a hurry and disappeared from his line of sight.


	17. Napoleon’s Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A curious Gaby asks Illya about Napoleon’s ring when she sees him wearing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, bryonyashley is my muse. This is based on her tumblr prompt. ;)

“You’re wearing Napoleon’s ring.”

Illya shrugs at Gaby’s remark. “He asked me to keep it.”

“Does it mean anything, other than you just keeping it for him?”

Illya doesn’t answer, but the tiniest of smiles lights up his face and Gaby needn’t ask more. 

She had known before the boys themselves were aware of what they mean to each other, and knowing they’ve finally acknowledged it, sends an indescribable feeling rushing through her. It’s part envy, because she could have had it with Illya, but also part happiness, because, well, it’d been damn obvious the feelings the two have for each other.

“It’s his precious keepsake just like your father’s watch,” Gaby says later when she sees Illya carelessly toying with the ring around his finger.

“Yes, something like this,” Illya replies dryly, clearly not wanting to elaborate more and she hums at him. She had never thought about it till now, the importance of Napoleon’s ring. Maybe one day she could wring the story from Illya, or maybe, from Napoleon himself. But just as she’s about to change the topic, Illya surprises her by saying, “Cowboy said he got it from his father. A family ring. But other than that, he doesn’t know anything else.”

Gaby nods but can’t help to pry further. “So he’ll take it back once he returns from his lone mission?”

At her words Illya remembers when Napoleon had handed him the ring, what he’d said, and what it had meant to him when he’d asked Illya to keep it. 

“I thought,” Napoleon had cleared his throat, “you could keep it for me. Just in case, I don’t come back alive from my assignment. Waverly said it could be pretty dangerous..”

Wordlessly, Illya had grabbed the ring from Napoleon’s outstretched hand and firmly enclosed it in his fist. He’d hated being separated from the American and seeing the serious set of Napoleon’s eyes, Illya had growled “don’t be ridiculous, you are being dramatic”, and before he could comprehend it, before he could understand what he was doing, he had pulled Napoleon in and wrapped his arms tight around his partner, not wanting to let him go. When Napoleon had moved to pull away, Illya had protested, mumbled against his mouth “watch your back, please”, and Napoleon had only nodded. A pause, a brush of noses and parted lips, they soon had started kissing, a kiss that had gone on and on, and right there and then Illya knew Napoleon was really bad for his self-control.

“Maybe he wants it back, but maybe I could keep it also,” Illya finally answers Gaby’s earlier question when his mind returns to the present. A warm flush paint his cheeks when he sees Gaby smiling with a look that says ‘I know’.

Illya’s mouth later turns up and rolls his eyes at her when it’s clear she is still expecting more than the simple answer he’d just given her.

“You still want to know more.”

Gaby laughs delightfully. “Oh, you know me too well, Illya.”

And soon Illya starts talking, telling her everything, and Gaby can’t be more happier for her friends.


	18. Lured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy the show, Peril?
> 
> Heads up, this ficlet is M rated.

Illya’s bored, ready to go to bed. Gaby is out on surveillance and Napoleon, well the Cowboy is in his own room. Illya knows this because all those bugs he’d planted without the American’s knowledge gives him a good idea enough on his partner’s whereabouts. It’s not like knowing where Napoleon is all the time is of worldly importance, but Illya thinks it is necessary, though he can’t really explain it if anyone were to ask him why.

Suddenly curious about what Napoleon is up to, he reaches over for his radio from under his bed, turns it on, then holds it close to his ear. His eyes instantly widen upon hearing soft gasping breaths and then what sounds like an unbidden little moan. 

Is Napoleon really...Illya shakes his head, can’t bear to finish the thoughts in his head. The American has indeed no shame. But then Illya can’t put the radio away. He wants to, and he knows he really should, but when his name is unmistakably heard seconds later, Illya completely freezes. 

“God, Illya…”

Illya’s breath catches in his throat. And when he hears his name again, sounding almost sinful dripping from Napoleon’s mouth, he almost drops the radio in his hands. And then what follows; Napoleon’s moans of breathless pleasure, gasps and groans and... _fuck_ , he’s uttering his name again, even louder, asking him to go faster. _Fuck!_

Illya's lips go dry as he envisions Napoleon on his bed, doing what he thinks he is doing, and the images he sees in his head has him trembling, hands shaking, heart beating a little faster. Is Napoleon doing this on purpose to get his attention? Does he know Illya’s listening in right at that moment? 

“ _Nhhh_...Illya, please..."

_God_ , this is so wrong, Illya thinks. He shouldn’t be doing this, listening to his insufferable partner masturbate to some fantasy of him? But Napoleon’s moaning and groaning are so terribly sexy and magnetic, Illya suddenly wishes he’s there in Napoleon’s room. And he wishes it’s his hand that’s doing the pleasuring. Why let Napoleon imagine when he could have the real thing wrap around his cock? And Illya could do a lot more if Napoleon lets him. Illya is letting his own imagination run wild and it’s turning him on, making him hot. He sees Napoleon underneath him, writhing on his back, splayed out for him to touch. To taste. Illya bites his lip, closes his eyes. And moans. He leans back against his pillows, radio at his side with Napoleon’s moans still filling his ears, and just as he’s about to touch himself, one especially lewd moan fills his ear.

“Illya, please, if you’re listening…”

Illya could see Napoleon so clearly, on his arched back, desperate. 

“Peril. Need you. Now.”

Illya's heart stops. Napoleon’s calling out to him. So, he knows? Illya curses out loud. And then he’s scrambling off his ass and within the next few minutes he’s already at the foot of Napoleon’s bed and what he sees is ten folds better than what he’d imagined.

“You’ve come.”

Illya swallows hard. Napoleon had done everything on purpose but Illya doesn’t care if he had fallen for his trap. Now all he wants is to pin him down. And take him hard.

“Did you like the show I’d put for you?” Napoleon smiles invitingly, pulling Illya out of his thoughts. Illya only smirks as he crawls his way on top of Napoleon, thinking _‘you’ll get so much more than what you’d asked for, Cowboy’_ and Napoleon gasps as Illya gives him a firm squeeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](https://el3anorrigbyworld.tumblr.com/post/168735825134/atanau-art-did-you-enjoy-the-show-peril-so) tumblr entry :)


	19. Can’t Get Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon lets Illya get away with things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another M rated ficlet originally from Tumblr with a few tweaks.

Napoleon had just stepped out of the shower, hair wet and tousled with a towel wrapped around his hips when he hears Illya entering his room.

“Cowboy?”

“I’m in the bathroom,” Napoleon shouts a reply. He’s wiping off droplets of water from his eyes when the door is suddenly pushed open and Illya steps inside before leaning against the doorframe.

“Do you even know what privacy means, Peril?” Napoleon asks in annoyance.

“Not really,” Illya replies, deadpan.

Napoleon rolls his eyes. 

“And why are you here? Don’t we have the day off?”

“Yes. But I thought we could get breakfast,” Illya cooly says.

Napoleon hums quietly to himself. Then smirks. “Didn’t get enough of my company over the past two weeks of our mission, I presume?”

“No,” comes Illya’s short answer, and the lazy grin on his face irritates Napoleon further. But hearing Illya’s reply, and the hidden meaning it implies had sent a little thrill running through his body, though he hides it by shaking his head at the taller man.

“When I’m shaved and dressed, we’ll have to have a talk about your rude manners during breakfast. Just because Gaby gave you the master key to the suite doesn’t mean you have the right to walk into my room.”

Despite his talk, he rather likes that Illya’s there, although suddenly he feels naked under Illya’s gaze. It takes all of his willpower not to check if his towel is still secure around his waist because Illya’s eyes are lingering where they shouldn’t. If Illya isn’t blocking the door, Napoleon probably would have reached for the robe hanging behind it.

Brushing his self-conscious urges aside, Napoleon turns his back on Illya and focuses on his reflection in the mirror. He gets his messy hair in order, humming a tune underneath his breath while all the while ignoring the Russian. Punishing him with disregard for his behaviour is a good one because Napoleon knows Illya hates it when he does it. It’s something his ego cannot take.

As he reaches for the razor next, Napoleon notices Illya’s eyes on him. It’s predatory. At that, a flush on his cheeks appears, a faint crimson tint that runs down all the way down to his neck. He pretends it’s from the heat of the shower rather than Illya’s presence, although he knows too well that isn’t the case and has to pretend further that he hasn’t realised the fact that Illya has stepped closer. The truth is he feels it; the soft sound of his footfalls on the tiles, the way the air in the room seems to stifle around Illya’s presence, the rise of tension. It is taut. And that’s even before Illya’s figure comes into full view behind him in the mirror.

Napoleon looks at him with one eyebrow raised. 

“What?” he says, still trying to be nonchalant.

But without saying a word, Illya takes the razor off from Napoleon’s hand and that surprises the American. He turns and frowns up at Illya. “What are you…”

Illya’s callused fingers are surprisingly soft against his skin as he tilts Napoleon’s chin. The touch is unexpected and startling. Illya turns him around once again and their eyes meet in the mirror.

“Let me do it,” Illya mutters.

“You come barging in just because you want to shave me?”

“I wanted to ask you if you’d like breakfast. But then, yes, to this too. Is a problem for you?”

His large hand is still resting on Napoleon’s cheek and neck, just above his pulse point, but close enough that Napoleon imagines Illya must be able to feel the frantic beat of his heart.

He swallows hard, doesn’t understand why Illya would want to shave him. It’s a terrible idea, not because there’ll be shallow cuts on him and blood in the sink, but because Illya touching him is a really, _really_ bad idea. It always is. But Illya’s blue eyes are sharper than the razor blade, and Napoleon cannot say no.

“Okay, if that’s what you really want,” he agrees so quietly he hopes it’ll mask the tremor in his voice.

The capitulation earns him a smile, almost tender, the kind of smile that is sure to have women and men willing to fall on their knees for the Russian. And Napoleon hates how he’s so easily charmed by his partner.

Letting go of his face, Illya takes the shaving foam from the tray, dispersing a generous amount in his palms before reaching for Napoleon. The first touch, spreading the soft foam across his cheek, is light and uncharacteristically hesitant, but it doesn’t take long for him to regain his confidence. He tips Napoleon’s head back when he lathers up his throat, fingers moving in tiny circles over the sensitive skin. It doesn’t feel perfunctory; it’s too drawn out, too much like a caress, and Napoleon is almost glad that the angle makes it impossible to watch Illya in the mirror.

Then the hands are gone, and Napoleon is already missing Illya’s touch.

“Stay still,” Illya orders him, and he obeys.

Napoleon expects to feel the cool, sharp blade of the razor, but it still makes him jump when it first touches the side of his throat. The movement causes the blade to slip from Illya’s hold, cutting his skin. The brief, sharp sting makes Napoleon wince, his hand coming up swiftly to feel the cut, but Illya stops him before he could do so. His finger gently traces the spot, wiping away whatever blood there was and Napoleon can almost hear the frown in his voice when he speaks. “Stop moving. I don’t want to cut you again.”

“Sorry.”

That’s all Napoleon could say and he’s well aware of the irony that he’s the one who had ended up apologising when it was Illya who had cut him.

Holding himself perfectly still, Napoleon waits for the blade again. This time, it slides a clean, straight line from the hollow of his throat to the underside of his chin without drawing blood, and Napoleon lets out a shaky breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding.

And it gets easier after that, but at the same time undoubtedly harder too. Illya guides the blade across his skin with sure, steady hands while directing Napoleon’s face with soft touches to get better access. And even though there are no further bloody incidents, nothing about the entire act of Illya shaving him feels safe. Because it feels like seduction, and Napoleon doesn’t know if he wants Illya to finish it up quickly and stop, or to draw it out for as long as he can. His fingers keep brushing against Napoleon’s throat, his cheeks, his neck, lips, and Napoleon knows half of them are accidental touches. Some are not, though. And then there are those touches that are without purpose, completely, utterly gratuitous, and those are the ones that push Napoleon’s endurance to the limit.

And once it’s over, Illya mutters softly, “All done.”

Napoleon looks at his reflection and makes a sound of approval. “Hmm, I look good.”

Illya only rolls his eyes at the self-complementary comment, but then whispers, “you do,” before finding himself touching the tiny cut on Napoleon’s neck where the blade had slipped. Napoleon flinches at the touch.

“I’m sorry about this,” Illya says and when their eyes meet again in the mirror, Napoleon sees heat in the blue of Illya’s eyes. He gives Napoleon’s shoulders a brief, firm squeeze before letting his hands trail up to his neck, raising goosebumps on Napoleon’s flushed skin. 

“What are you doing?” Napoleon asks, his voice breathless. He doesn’t think having rational thoughts at that moment is possible despite his question. But Illya doesn’t answer, arms now tight around Napoleon and Napoleon can only lean back against him. He turns his head to face Illya but Illya quickly grabs his jaw in his hand and turns it so that the both of them are facing the mirror again. Napoleon could see in the reflection how intense Illya’s eyes are on him.

Then, slowly, he reaches down and pulls at the towel around Napoleon’s waist, ignoring the noise of protest. The American fingers clamp down on Illya’s wrist, stilling the motion and holding him in place.

“Too early in the morning, Peril,” he warns, voice almost breaking.

“But it has not stopped us before,” Illya replies, so sure of himself and Napoleon succumbs.

He loosens his grip on Illya’s hand, tries not to think about how the smile Illya directs at him in the mirror feels like his defeat. And when Illya touches him where it matters, Napoleon lets out what sounds like a helpless whine. 

“Illya…”

The calluses of Illya’s fingers are rough, but his touch is gentle and just firm enough.

After a few experimental strokes, Illya pulls back and spits in his palm, and the next time his hand wraps around Napoleon, it is slick and slippery and warm. Their eyes never waver from each other; Illya’s feeding on the sight of Napoleon drowning in desire and embarrassment and need. When Illya’s hand moves faster, adding a little twist to the upstroke, it tears unbidden little moans from Napoleon’s throat. The American lolls his head back, resting against Illya’s shoulder, clenches his eyes shut. He wants to enjoy it for as long as he can, wants to draw it out, but he knows he can’t last.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, one hand reaching back to grab Illya’s hair. The act triggers Illya, fervidly touching Napoleon now with more vigour.

“Never can get enough of you,” Illya says, reminding Napoleon how he belongs to him, never _ever_ wants him to forget, then slowly whispers, “let go.”

He attaches his lips on the wound on Napoleon’s neck, bites it, and Napoleon then comes all over Illya’s hand, moaning his name, breathing in the scent of Illya who is all around him, who has taken over every part of his being. It’s smouldering and liberating all at once.

And it’s over too soon.

He’s still breathing heavily, riding that perfect high, when Illya steps back a little. But then his arms are around him again, anchoring him close. “I like you clean shaven,” he says in his ear, kissing him on his neck.

“But that’s just an excuse to touch me, right?” Napoleon asks, and Illya smiles. 

It’s not even a question.


	20. The Last One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon cannot help but wonder how Illya’s skin would feel to his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on [THIS](https://el3anorrigbyworld.tumblr.com/post/170538480854/napoleon-watches-illya-apprehend-their-mark-with) Tumblr entry with tweaks. :)

Napoleon watches Illya apprehend their mark with ease and panache and he’s so stunning when he’s in action that Napoleon is left utterly fascinated just by looking at him. He’d just finished bundling the man into their transport, and now he’s talking to Waverly in their suite with little strands of his usually neat hair falling across his forehead and a slight redness across his flushed cheekbones. The light of the room is somehow enhancing his features and those ridiculous long eyelashes of his makes him even more gorgeous.

 

In short, Illya looks explicitly beautiful.

 

And Napoleon cannot help but wonder how Illya’s skin would feel to his touch.

 

“Cowboy, what are you looking at?”

 

Napoleon’s suddenly aware that Waverly has left the room and he had been caught staring openly at his partner. How long have they been left alone? And how long has Illya stood there in front of him, calling his name while he’s in a trance?

 

Speak of the embarrassment.

 

“Nothing,” Napoleon finds his voice at last but Illya’s still giving him a questioning look.

 

“Are you…?”

 

“I’m fine, Peril,” Napoleon answers quickly before Illya could ask him further and although he’s glad he’d managed to evade him, he still feels the gaze of Illya’s eyes on his trailing back before disappearing into his own bedroom for the night.

 

But of course, Napoleon cannot keep up his pretense, that being near Illya is not affecting him somehow. More and more he finds himself unable to look away. And each time he lets it be known, lets Illya see that he’s actually watching him.

 

And when Illya corners him after he had 'accidentally' spilled the truth, had made it known that he’s been thinking of the Russian rather differently than what work colleagues ought to have for the other, Napoleon simply lets it slip. They may be in a middle of a mission, but Napoleon knows he will not get a better chance to do so. And standing in a darkened alleyway hidden from unwanted prying eyes may work to his advantage.

 

“You really want to know?”

 

Illya stands his ground.

 

“I do not like playing games.”

 

Napoleon tilts his head, then tips forward involuntarily.

 

“This is no game, Peril.”

 

There is some kind of magnetic pull, some force of nature beyond his control, dragging him over and over again into the personal space of this man who is dangerous, who can crush his enemy without effort and yet …Napoleon isn’t scared to pull his tail, to see how far he could push his buttons. 

 

They are close, really close now, but still barely touching the other. Maybe Illya is aware that anything closer would mean too much. Maybe he senses it too. The palpable tension.

 

Illya glances at him. With those eyes. And Napoleon thinks maybe he’s never wanted anyone this much in his entire life.

 

He can feel his heart pounding low in his stomach, that aching, spreading throb. He is too aware of his own breathing. How it speeds up. Illya doesn’t move an inch when Napoleon moves in just a little closer.

 

“You might regret this, Cowboy,” Illya warns.

 

“I don’t think so.”

 

Their noses are just inches apart.

 

Another moment draws out between them, and still, Illya doesn’t move away. A challenging stance. Napoleon can almost smell him now, whatever cologne he’s wearing. It fills his senses. And it’s rather intoxicating. And then slowly, telegraphing every inch of his movement, Napoleon leans forward and presses his face close until it rests at the side of Illya’s cheek. His nose nuzzles his ear.

 

And he waits.

 

Neither does Illya pull nor does he push him away. He just stands there. Frozen.

 

Napoleon lets out a breath, opens his mouth and drags it across Illya’s skin, careful. Just in case Illya decides to step back and punch him in the face. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t move. So Napoleon proceeds. But still, he goes slow, infuriatingly slow. He wants to properly plant his lips and kiss Illya’s neck, the delicious turn of his jaw, but no matter how much he wants to, he doesn’t. He holds back. He's got self-control. He just breathes soft and warm, lips just barely brushing skin, making his way from Illya’s jaw to the spot behind his ear.

 

Illya sucks in a breath.

 

Napoleon thinks perhaps he’s gone overboard. Thinks this is the time when Illya will shove him back. Thinks this time his fist will connect with his skin.

 

But the punch does not come.

 

He is still there, unmoving, hands clenched tight at his sides.

 

And he’s trembling all over.

 

“Illya,” Napoleon says, breathing quick and shallow. Napoleon can’t tell if Illya’s eyes are closed. His face is hidden from his view, and Napoleon actually fears what he might see if he pulls back just to glance up at the Russian. He doesn’t want to risk anything at all. He doesn’t want to shatter whatever it is that’s happening right at that moment.

 

_He is too close._

 

“Solo,” Illya murmurs, the first time he’s said anything since this brazen act from Napoleon had started and Napoleon takes it as his cue.

 

He nuzzles the skin behind Illya’s ear, breath ghosting across Illya’s jaw. Then, deciding he’s teased Illya enough, he takes Illya’s earlobe between his teeth and bites.

 

A loud gasp is heard and suddenly Illya’s hand is on him, takes a fistful of his hair and yanks his head backward, hard enough to hurt. They’re face to face now, but only inches separate them. Napoleon can see even in the darkness that Illya’s eyes are wide, pupils blown, and Napoleon is awestruck.

 

He holds Illya’s wild-eyed gaze.

 

They simply stare at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

 

Illya’s fingers tighten in his hair.

 

“Do you really want this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

One of them starts to move, Napoleon doesn’t know, can’t figure out who, but then suddenly they’re kissing.

 

They. Are. Kissing.

 

And Napoleon loses it. Of course, he’s had his fair share of kisses with men but this, with Illya, _God_ , it’s nothing like he’s ever experienced in his life. His strong hands hold him close as if afraid Napoleon might just disappear if he loosens his grip on him. They kiss with lips and teeth and tongue, hot and hard against each other, and everything else is just overwhelming.

 

When Napoleon opens his eyes again some indeterminate time later, his back is against the dirty bricked wall of the alleyway with Illya’s arms bracketing his head. His fingers are twisted in Napoleon’s hair, his calloused thumbs brushing the edges of Napoleon’s kiss-bruised parted lips. Tantalising.

 

They stare at each other. Breaths ragged.

 

Napoleon reaches up, runs his fingers over Illya’s face. Illya nudges into it, his eyes fluttering shut as Napoleon traces his face with careful fingers. He starts with his cheekbones, his temple, his nose. His lips. Damn those lips, Napoleon thinks.

 

Gently, with a small smile, Napoleon pulls him back down by tugging at his collar and tips his own chin up, and their mouths meet again halfway. They kiss once more; languid and slower this time and Napoleon’s heart flutters.

 

“Peril,” he breathes, even if Illya is still raining kisses along his jaw. “Let’s go back to our room. It’ll be so much better there…”

 

Illya just hums, nips at Napoleon’s chin and moves down to kiss at his throat.

 

“Maybe, I want you here.”

 

“Illya.”

 

“Yes,” answers Illya finally, and Napoleon thinks he’ll let him go but instead he sucks on Napoleon’s lower lip. Napoleon groans. It’s a damn good distraction, but Illya just couldn’t help it. Especially after he’s got a taste of him. It’s too addictive.

 

“Come on,” Napoleon whines again and this time Illya complies.

 

“Make your promise good, Cowboy,” he growls before quickly tugging Napoleon away from the wall by his arm.

 

Napoleon doesn’t say anything even if he wants to, simply smiles because he’s a man of his words and Illya will certainly attest to it once the night is over.


End file.
